


Act of Contrition

by Zarathastra



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: D/s relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-08
Updated: 2015-06-08
Packaged: 2018-04-03 10:42:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4097950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zarathastra/pseuds/Zarathastra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are times when it's okay to just let things be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Act of Contrition

**Author's Note:**

> This is a meant to be a gentle interlude in the complicated life of two people who love each other. Don't worry, they probably won't go too long without wanting to get back to bonking each other's brains out.

**Act of Contrition**

**Zarathastra**

 

Things weren’t exactly back to normal yet.  Sherlock had hoped they would be by now, but it was far from normal yet in their small circle.  For instance he’d never before had to make his own tea quite so often.  It was a little weapon of John’s.  He would go for days coasting along, by turns smiling and shouting, breaking into laughter and acting normally and Sherlock thought with a deep sense of relief that they’d soon be able to return to the way they’d been before.

 

And then sometimes, usually on some quiet Sunday, it all went south.  This time he’d been sitting there innocently minding his own business, concentrating on comparing the mud samples he’d brought home from Lestrade’s crime scene and John had suddenly appeared in front of him.  John did that a lot, but now Sherlock was beginning to tell the differences in him, usually when John decided he’d been out at large in London for too long on his own.

 

Sherlock wondered which John this one was.

 

There was a John who just stood there, hands on his hips, eyes that were usually soft with love glaring at the mess he was making.  And there was a John who tried to wrestle the microscope out of his hands and fill them instead with a mundane cup of tea or a plate of something dubiously brown with red stuff all over it that John swore was edible but Sherlock decided needed to be tested for bacteria instead.  There was even a John who appeared at four thirty-seven in the morning in his pyjama bottoms and T-shirt and demanded he stop making that god-awful noise and _“Come to bed, sod it!”_

 

Most of these different Johns he could deal with.  All it took was a sharp look and a determined tone of voice at least an octave lower than his normal tone and whichever John was currently venting at him about some trivia or other would suddenly back off, gaze at him reproachfully and depending on the circumstances and the time of day would either go to his knees and bend his head, slink back to bed with a parting barrage of swearing, or retreat silently to his chair to sulk, rattling the pages of his paper, or banging away at the keys of his laptop.

 

On those occasions Sherlock could guess that John wouldn’t be writing up the latest case with that mix of breathless admiration and purple prose he sometimes displayed - quite the opposite, in fact.  Sherlock had broken into John’s laptop once and discovered a file bearing his name that was full of page after page of nothing but the word _‘wanker’_.   There was really no other way to take that but personally.

 

He’d been hopeful that the longer he remained, the more it would become apparent that the circumstances of his leaving had been unique, that he wasn’t leaving that way again, and that John would soon get used to him being there, back in his chair again as Mrs Hudson had once put it.  Before too long, he thought, this new passive John would give way to the former military man, strong and courageous, who’d thought nothing of the two of them hurtling headlong into danger together.  He certainly hoped so. 

 

The man that he had returned to had become so stifling that he wouldn’t let Sherlock out of his sight without a direct order and a great deal of effort on Sherlock’s part to keep him in the flat, using a pair of handcuffs, usually.

 

Sherlock had thought they’d settled that particular question but still he had to vocalise the same words over and over.  No, he wouldn’t be leaving without John that way again.  No, he was not going to vanish into the night with no trace.  These days, it seemed, he couldn’t even escape into the privacy of his own thoughts.  He had the feeling that if John could find a way then there would be no privacy there, either.  One day he’d go to his Mind Palace and there he would find John Watson, sitting in exactly the same chair as the one he occupied in their flat in Baker Street, waiting for him, calling him every name under the sun. 

 

And he didn’t know how to justify being angry about that, still feeling the guilt he’d been experiencing since he came back.  It didn’t help that John was either consciously or unconsciously aware of how he felt, and had been manipulating the situation; almost literally extracting his own unique pound of flesh with every yearning look he cast Sherlock’s way.

 

Things had shifted irrevocably since his return.  The truth of it was that after the enforced separation, after the things he’d seen and the people he’d encountered he’d come back with a fresh perspective on late-night suppers and people who flung open windows in a person’s flat to let in the cold and let out the smoke from stale cigarettes.

 

In his own fashion he was every bit as much in love as John was and after his two year’s exile nothing was further from his mind than parting from him.  No, that would never happen again.  But this heart-broken, needy soul was stifling him.

 

Sherlock didn’t recognise the man who stood in front of him and suddenly wanted John back so much it gave him an unexpected pang of loss.  He’d missed something again, Sherlock thought with a slight feeling of dismay, wondering what it could be, before he finally realised that it didn’t matter.  The remedy was in his own hands.  If it meant starting again right from the beginning, then he would do it.

 

“John?” he said, deliberately setting the irritation aside and looking at his watch.  It wasn’t that late.  “Is it time for supper?  I’m nearly finished here.  Would you like to have something to eat?  I’m sure Mrs Hudson has left something in the fridge.  Or we could go out somewhere.  What do you think?”

 

John said nothing, just stood there, his expression almost completely blank. 

 

And then, as John slowly went to his knees, he knew, and his heart twisted in his chest.  He hadn’t moved from his work for hours.  He was still there in the same room, but as far as John was concerned, he’d taken himself away again.  This wasn’t something that could be fixed in a few minutes, but he could put aside the fact that he thought John was overreacting and make a start.

 

He watched as John’s head dipped to rest on his knee and those gifted hands reached out to him, folding around his calves in a punishing grip as John embraced him in a desperate attempt to keep him close and safe.

 

“Go upstairs, John, wait for me,” Sherlock said in a quiet, even voice.  “I’ll be there.”  And as John’s head came up to allow him to see the desperate need there, he said it again.  “I’ll be there.  You need to trust me.”

 

And the grip eased and he watched John rise to his feet, take one last look and then leave the room, dragging his right leg in a limp Sherlock hadn’t seen in such a long time that he’d thought it gone forever.

 

~~~

 

Sherlock tried to open the door quietly.  It didn’t quite work but he had no choice, his hands were full.  He looked at John there on his bed, waiting.  John had done a lot of that over the last two years, but surely he knew it was over now?

 

John had gone time-travelling.  It was two years ago and he was in this very place, eyes closed, imaging Sherlock there beside him.  And that was the really frustrating thing, Sherlock thought, he was asking for something he already had.  It was inefficient, it was stupid.

 

John was lying in what had since Sherlock’s return become his usual position, naked this time, belly-down on top of the bed, eyes closed, waiting.  He had no idea what was going to happen.  There was no sound.  Would it be like last time, with nerves stretched to their limits with anticipation, until just the feel of the hand on his back made him come?

 

_There it was again._

 

It had woken him from a light sleep and at first he thought he’d imagined it, but there it went again.

 

How long had he waited for this, ears straining to hear the tiniest of sounds, the whisper of air passing by, something that couldn’t be taken for mice behind the skirting boards, or that tread on the stair that could never be mistaken for anything else.

 

How long had he waited for this man?  So long that it had cost him a wife and what was left of his sanity.  He tried not to think about that.

 

He turned to lie on his back, eyelids blinking slowly, staring at the ceiling, thinking that he’d feel stupid later if it turned out to be burglars.  Or Zombies.  But just for now he’d let himself imagine that the sincere prayers of the heart really do find answer, even if in this case the answer could be the awful fact that he was going mad.  He wondered which would be worse, the insanity scenario, the burglar scenario or the Zombie one.  The Zombie one, probably.

 

He let himself imagine the way the next minutes would play out if it really was true and it really was that Sherlock had come back to him, the press of hands to his hands, the fingers smoothing his hair, the deep voice scolding him for his tears.

 

But it wasn’t real; it never had been before and never would be again.  Why should tonight be any different?

 

Ah, but this time his treacherous mind supplied the opening of his door.  He looked up into impossible eyes, tried to speak, although his voice was overwhelmed by the lack of air in his lungs, and all the things he imagined saying in just this scenario were silenced.

 

“You…I…”

 

“Shh…tomorrow, John.”  And the phantom shouldered his violin and began to play.  “I’m here.  I’m not going anywhere, not without you.  Never again.”

 

The same words he’d thought he heard so many times over the last months.  So, probably too much to hope for, then.  He lay down and closed his eyes, listened to the lullaby coaxed from the violin.  All his questions, along with his anger and hurt and the happiness overlaying it all, could wait.  His eyes closed as he imagined slowly letting go of the last two years and he wondered what brought this on tonight, why he needed Sherlock so badly tonight.  If it had been Sherlock sitting now on the end of the bed, playing his violin, just for him, it would have been everything he could ever wish for and he would never ask for another thing in his life.

 

Sherlock carried on playing, longer and longer, waiting for John to sleep.  Both of them were weary, both of them, it seemed, needed the sound of the music to wrap each other in.

 

“I don’t know that one,” John murmured sleepily, letting the sound take him down further than Ella’s relaxation technique ever could.  For a moment the music stopped and Sherlock’s hand was on his hair, just the way he imagined it would be.  “What’s it called?  It’s nice.”

 

Sherlock started the last piece again, every note played from memory, each crotchet an apology, every quaver and breve and semi-breve a promise that he would never leave again.  It would need saying again, of course, in words, in the morning, but for now the music was enough.

 

As the last note faded away Sherlock leaned down and kissed the sleeping man’s brow.  If John could see his eyes right now, he might back off, Sherlock thought, might turn away from all the things those hungry eyes must show.

 

But just for now his gift of music had the desired effect.  John was sleeping peacefully for the first time in two years.

 

Sherlock smiled down at the sleeping face.

 

“I’ll be here, John,” he said.  “I promise.”

 

It was a start.

 

End

 


End file.
